


Sexual Guidance Counselor

by lily rose (annabeth)



Series: piss!verse 2.0 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Incest, Incest Kink, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Sam is sixteen, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Underage - Freeform, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, mention of Dean/OMCs, this means piss, watersports adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24721150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: "What made that sound?" Sam asks, darting out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. In his hurry, he's wearingonlythe towel, and is otherwise completely naked.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: piss!verse 2.0 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787341
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Sexual Guidance Counselor

**Author's Note:**

> So, waaaay back in the day, like at least ten years ago, I wrote a series of fics I referred to as the piss!verse. And fastforward to now, when writing SPN sounded like fun again--and I've officially embarked (unintentionally, though, as it were) on a second foray into connected watersports fics. I give you: the piss!verse 2.0! I have four total fics so far but this is not finished, and I only hope I have better success completing this one than I did the last one. (Those of you who remember this probably know it never got finished the first time.)

"What made that sound?" Sam asks, darting out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. In his hurry, he's wearing _only_ the towel, and is otherwise completely naked.

Dean was hoping to have more time; as it is, he's caught like the proverbial kid with his hand in the cookie jar, cock out, bottle tilted just so in front of him, and… well…

"Dean?" Sam's brow furrows. This isn't really something _new_ , exactly, or something unexpected—at least, not necessarily. Sam was the one who started it, after all. And Dean is just trying to think up ways to spice up their sex life—the sex life they have with each other, which should be a contradiction in terms, but is instead one of the only things that makes sense to Dean.

"Did you finish your shower, Sammy?" he asks, trying to divert Sam's attention while he slowly turns his body to obscure what he's doing. Was doing—he stopped in surprise when Sam left the bathroom.

"Were you waiting for me to be under the spray so I wouldn't hear you?" Sam is smirking now. He's a little bitch… well, maybe not so little: his baby brother is growing up—and by up, Dean means taller and taller.

"You usually take at least thirty minutes to shower!" Dean protests. "It's all that time you take to wash, and then condition, and then rinse your hair…" Dean mutters, carefully lifting the bottle and setting it on the table by the window, which he closed, thankfully, before starting. Sam huffs, either a laugh or a snort, Dean's not sure which without looking at him, but he's too preoccupied making sure he doesn't spill to try to differentiate between the two.

"I do not, Dean," Sam says indignantly. "And last time… when we, uh, showered together… you said you liked my hair. Remember?" Sam is suddenly so close to Dean that he can smell him: clean, fragrant teenager, all damp skin and cheap motel soap. "Are you—" he peeks over Dean's shoulder "—drinking?"

"No," Dean says guiltily, feeling his face flush red. Sam rests his chin on Dean's shoulder—shit, the kid must have had another growth spurt, because he's a little taller than Dean now—and sniffs, rather delicately, to be honest.

"Ah," Sam says. "Now I see." He pats Dean's ass, then begins to nibble at his earlobe. "Pissing. For me, Dean?"

"Something like that," Dean says. "I mean…"

"You could have let me watch," Sam accuses. "Like I wouldn't _hear_ you, Dean, honestly." He bites Dean's earlobe a little harder than necessary, and Dean's cock twitches in his hand.

"I didn't let you watch because it's supposed to be a surprise," Dean says, even as he stuffs a cork into the bottle. The liquid sloshes around inside, and Sam blows on the damp flesh of Dean's ear.

"What are you planning to do with it?" Sam asks, as if this is academic curiosity only. Sam _would_ sound like that—he's always been a geek, to whom academics are more fun than a nuisance. Dean always found school to be, not precisely difficult—he's just as intelligent as Sam—but boring. He could understand his subjects well enough, but he had a hard time concentrating because he was too busy thinking about other, more important, things, like whether Sam was eating enough or if John was on a hunt, or if John was on a hunt and Sam was by himself.

Sam hasn't actually needed a babysitter in years—he was about nine years old when he stopped needing anyone to actively look after him, though the dangerous nature of their lifestyle meant that Dean has never stopped doing it—but back when Dean was in high school, daydreaming about Sam, or considering if his little brother was doing okay, took precedence over schoolwork.

Sam, though, never had those extra cares, concerns, or worries, so he's a right little jerk when it comes to things like research, lore, reading books—including textbooks and obscure hunting journals—and Dean is, even in his own mind, stalling. Thinking about Sam is a favorite pastime, but Sam is _right there,_ , his nose rubbing along Dean's shoulder, his breath scented with mint and his hair dripping slow drops onto Dean's collarbone. 

"I was going to use it to…" Dean chews on his lower lip, twisting around so that he can face Sam, who allows him to do it, but doesn't move away. This means that now their chests are touching, and Sam's still gloriously naked, and his cock—oh, his cock. Sam's _hard_ , which is a beautiful treasure, and he's huge, rigid against the side of Dean's belly. Dean's getting harder—and he shifts his legs and his body just slightly, so that the bare flesh of his own cock contacts Sam's.

Sam still isn't used to having a partner for these things. He bucks, and his mouth opens. Whatever noise he wants to make is silent—Dean is going to teach him, someday, to be loud (and maybe roleplay as well)—but his green eyes are wide. And Dean realizes this is the first time their bare cocks have touched each other.

"I want—" Sam's Adam's apple jumps. "I _need_ to kiss you, Dean."

"So kiss me," Dean says. "You know how. You did it once already." But he knows that Sam is still getting used to all this, so he lifts up a little and brings their mouths into communion with each other. Sam is still young and needs guidance, which Dean is happy to provide—just call him Sam's sexual guidance counselor—and he explores Sam's mouth, beginning a thrust and retreat of his tongue that shows Sam how to fuck Dean's mouth even as he ruts shamelessly against Dean's dick. Dean groans and pulls his mouth away slightly, and Sam chases him, nips at his bottom lip.

"Love your lips, Dean," Sam says. "Wanna see them on me." His hips move in little circles, grinding against Dean, and Dean arches forward deliberately. Just before he comes—because he's stupid fucking close considering the little they've done—he opens his eyes and watches Sam's face. There's a slight tic at his jawline, and his eyelids are fluttering. His mouth is still parted from their kisses, and his words are sinking into Dean like stones into a shallow pool. Dean's slow, because he's aroused and fucking against _Sam_ , but the words do eventually register.

That's what does it for Dean. He's never imagined giving a blowjob to anyone but Sam, no matter the fact that he's found other guys attractive plenty of times. But all those times—and those guys—made him think of Sam first and foremost anyway, and were just pleasant diversions to the fact that Sam was too young to despoil with his attentions.

Dean's been fucked in bar bathrooms and over kitchen tables and pool tables all because he was in lust—let's be real, he's in love—with his little brother, who was too innocent to be taken advantage of, by guys who reminded him of Sam.

Now, he's painting white stripes on Sam's clean, bare skin—they both need a shower, again—as his body trembles and shakes. He feels like he's going to fly apart, and all of the pieces are being scattered amongst a glitter of stars. Sam must not be faring much better—he's glued to Dean, hanging on for dear life, chest soaked in sweat, and arms squeezing his torso as his cock pulses against Dean's, spilling onto Dean's dick and his t-shirt.

"Sammy," Dean mouths against his naked skin. He fastens his teeth to Sam's collarbone and bites, gently, but enough that he's going to leave a mark, and Sam shudders, a tremor that travels the length and breadth of his body. He keens, too, the first real noise he's made, and Dean wonders if Sam likes pain along with piss.

"So what's the bottle for?" Sam asks with a languid, cat-with-the-cream sprawl to his voice, when he can breathe again enough to speak. Dean's still imprisoned by those muscular arms, but they're both recovering their stamina.

"If you get back in the shower stall," Dean says, "I'll show you."

Sam laughs, pleased as punch but also weary from the day and the powerful orgasm that cashed it out. He's exhausted, even if he's sated and glowing from the pleasure of it.

"You didn't need a bottle, Dean," Sam informs him, grabbing for the bottle. "You could've just asked."

"For?" Dean slowly separates them, and whips his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. He'll roll it up and stuff it in his duffle later, and someday, maybe, he'll wash the come stains out of it.

"I'll piss on you any time you like, Dean," Sam says, with another laugh. "And you can piss on me if you want. So we don't need any extra help."

Dean feels sheepish. He pats Sam on the shoulder—and admires the hickey he gave his brother—and shrugs.

"I s'pose you're right, after all that," he says. "I just wanted to see what it was like."

"For you?" Sam cocks his head. "You didn't seem grossed out in the shower. Did you want to practice first?"

Dean shakes his head. "No. You're right. I didn't need to practice—even if I didn't get off on the idea, and I apparently do, anything that comes from your body is welcome on mine, Sammy."

" _Everything_?" Sam asks with a quirked eyebrow. "Snot, shit, anything else?" He's laughing, the little punk.

"Okay, okay, no. At least, not for a sexual purpose. Besides, I used to change your diapers, Sam."

"Don't remind me!" Sam is now red as a sunset, and covering his face—he's still just a stupid sixteen-year-old, Dean needs to remember that. And maybe not point out that they grew up together.

Though Sam lunges forward and tackles Dean, toppling them both to the worn, nappy carpet, in a worn, shabby motel room—Sam is that much more beautiful for being young, and new, in comparison.

"Did you think that would change my mind, Dean?" He's back to making a little meal out of Dean's earlobe. Dean is ashamed of how much he likes that. With girls, he's never been into letting them play with _him_ , though he'll give them whatever foreplay they want as far as pleasuring them goes. With guys—with guys, it's always too impersonal, too much the quick, insolent fuck at the end of the day type of feeling. Only with Sam is there this… glow, this softness. And Dean _isn't_ ashamed of the fact that the difference between those things is love.

He loves Sam, in all ways. He loves him as his baby brother, and his only family besides John. He loves him as a friend, because for so often and so many years they've only had each other.

And as Sam reminds him with lips, teeth, and tongue—not to mention the breath to speak—he loves him as a lover.

It's clear that Sam agrees, and Dean, bowing up off the carpet in a second orgasm, can live with that.

END


End file.
